Space Tales (Seven For Space)

by William F. Nolan

  "What the doc here is saying makes a lot of sense to me, argued Space. "If you insist on going out on that lousy moor tonight I'll have to go with you to protect my investment. And lemme tell ya, it's the last frigging place I want to be!"

  "Tush, my dear fellow, said Holmes. "Your highly-emotional concern is wholly unfounded. I am sure no one will be at risk. Are you also planning to attend me, Watson?"

  I nodded gravely. "I shall be at your side whatever the cost. Although, in my view, such action is utter madness."

  Jonathan was leaning forward, his eyes wild. A frail hand gripped Holmes at the elbow. "I beg of you, sir, as I beg of your two companions … do not set foot on Grimpen Moor this night! The Hound is out there, and he will most surely attack. Any weapons you might carry will be of no avail since, I swear to you, nothing can stop him. Nothing!"

  Holmes gently extracted his arm from young Baskerville's bony fingers and moved to the door. "I intend to indulge in a light repast, taken in my rooms, followed by a bit of reading in the library. Whereupon I shall nap until it is time for us to meet at the edge of Grimpen Moor."

  And he exited the bedroom, leaving us to stare in numbed shock at one another.

  I knew enough about Sherlock Holmes to recognize his desire to ponder the case at hand, and I was careful not to disturb him, or in any way intrude upon his privacy, for the remainder of that long evening. After dinner, which I had served to me in the south wing, and to help calm my mounting sense of apprehension, I engaged in several spirited games of chess with Mr. Space. His being able to play was something of a pleasant surprise since I had not expected a person of his lower station to have mastered such a game. And master it he had, wresting victory from me three times out of five. In my own defense, however, I must point out that I was not myself, in terms of mental agility, with half my mind mulling over the dangers inherent in our upcoming rendezvous with the spectral Beast.

  During the course of these games, Mr. Space expressed serious concern over the operation Hu Albin had performed on Holmes' cortex. Indeed, had my robot friend been properly wired? Perhaps not, given his "nutso plan" (as Mr. Space put it) to walk us straight into the jaws of doom.

  And thus the hours passed …

  * * *

  Now we stood in the pitch of deep night at the dank edge of Grimpen Moor: Holmes, myself, and Samuel Space. A moaning wind had risen, increasing our discomfort, and the broken terrain stretching ahead seemed to promise unseen horrors.

  It was reported to us by Dame Agatha that Jonathan was so distraught over our foolhardy expedition that he had locked himself inside his chambers and taken to bed. She herself was equally upset at the prospect of our journey, cautioning us in particular to watch out for quagmires and treacherous bogholes.

  How clearly I recall the good woman's strained features as she delivered her dire warning: "The moor can suck an entire horse and wagon under in less than a minute. I've seen it happen with my own eyes, and a most harrowing sight it is! Always keep to the solid paths, on firm ground, lest you be sucked into the bog. I pray you, hark well to my words!"

  Thus, we had a troublesome new worry to add to the threat of the Hound itself. Holmes was, as always, imperturbable and staunchly resolute. Standing at his side by the moor's edge afforded me a modicum of courage on this night when courage was sorely needed.

  Reaching into his greatcoat to consult his gold pocket watch, Holmes nodded to us. "Time to embark, gentlemen. Onward! The game's afoot!"

  We struck off on a narrow path over the great moor. Above us, the twin moons of Mars illumined the bowl of night sky. Carried by the wind, the miasmic odor of slimed plant life, rotting ferns and scummed ponds permeated my nostrils, a mephitic stench of mold and decay indigenous to such a foul arena.

  Despite Sir Jonathan's protestations that weaponry would be useless, we were well armed. I had a loaded pistol within instant reach and Space carried a lethal .45-caliber Earth automatic in a shoulder holster. Holmes, too, was "packing heat" (as Sam so colorfully phrased it). He had a Webley service revolver belted beneath his greatcoat.

  Surely no animal, however fierce, could stand against such potent firepower — yet the disquieting words of Sir Jonathan kept rising to the surface of my mind: "I tell you … this creature is not of mortal flesh, it is of the Devil himself! "

  We were a good mile into our journey, following a succession of grassy paths that zigzagged through the moor, and had just passed a high bank of mossed black granite, when a truly blood-chilling howl split the night, a sound of such incredible menace that it stopped us full in our tracks.

  The cry of the Hound!

  "Ah, said Holmes, scanning the sweep of moor with narrowed eyes, "I see that our monstrous friend is indeed in the vicinity, just as I surmised he would be. I wager he will be paying us a personal visit in very short order."

  He spoke in a faintly bemused tone, demonstrating no sign of the panic welling within me. Space, too, looked ashen in the silvered light of the double moons. We both had our guns out as we peered apprehensively into the shrouding gloom. Where was the Beast? How close?

  "Come, gentlemen, said Holmes. "Let us proceed, but with a maximum of caution, maintaining a sharp watch for our redoubtable adversary."

  As we moved forward again, I kept darting my head around, striving to make out the phantom shape that stalked us. Jonathan was correct; only a fool would willingly venture here under such horrific conditions. At that fateful moment, in the wind-swept darkness of the moor, I could not help but believe the three of us fools. Perhaps Holmes' wiring had gone awry. It would explain his seemingly bland disregard for our personal safety.

  Then … another blood-freezing howl, much closer.

  It was coming for us now, and I could hear the drumming sound of its gigantic paws on the path behind us. Thump … thump … thump … Closer.

  Very close now.

  I had swung around, my eyes staring from my head in fear, a blade of ice running my spine. I raised my pistol, cocking it. Space swore under his breath, clutching the big .45 in both hands.

  "Yes, said Holmes, turning to face our onrushing enemy, "it is time for weapons — although do not expect your bullets to deter this creature."

  "My God, Holmes!" I cried. "You've brought us all out here to die!"

  Holmes gripped my shoulder. "Steady, Watson, steady!"

  "You damn crazy robo!" shouted Space. "We don't have a chance in hell against this thing."

  "Not in hell, perhaps, replied Holmes, his service revolver poised, "but here, on Grimpen Moor, the situation is quite different. Heads up, gentlemen, for the Beast is upon us!"

  And then we saw it — loping rapidly toward us, snarling, with fanged jaws, covered with a bristling coat of ragged fur. Its eyes burned with an unholy fire in the moon-shafted night.

  Space and I fired simultaneously, hitting our target full on, but our rounds passed through the charging monster like water through a sieve. All was lost; we were facing sure and certain extinction.

  Then, with the slavering creature only scant feet away, Holmes brought up his revolver and fired a single shot. The giant howled in pain, falling back, slipping from the path into the sucking mire. Instantly, it began to sink as life ebbed from its body.

  "Quick, Watson!" shouted Holmes. "Help me free it. We cannot allow it to be lost!"

  "But … but why not?" I sputtered. "Isn't this what we came for?"

  "Don't argue the point, man! Just help me!"

  Sam also pitched in; working together, the three of us managed to drag the bog-slimed monster back to firm ground.

  As I was later to realize, Holmes had precisely timed our adventure. A faint skein of light was beginning to stain the edge of the Martian sky. The sun would soon be above the horizon.

  I stared down at our fearsome enemy. The animal was quite obviously dead, its fanged mouth hideously agape, its eyes wide and unblinking. A froth of crimson seeped from its open jaw and the rank fur covering its chest was matted with
blood. Holmes' shot had proven fatal.

  "That's sure one ugly-looking critter, declared Space. He turned to my friend, a perplexed frown creasing his features. "How could you be so certain of killing it? And with just one shot. Our bullets didn't faze the damn thing. There's a lot about this I don't understand."

  And then Sherlock Holmes explained the mystery …

  "The first suspicious element I noted, within the scope of our conversation with Sir Jonathan at Baskerville Hall, was the degree of inner hostility he harbored for his two deceased siblings. I sensed his contempt for Alexander, and you will recall that he dubbed Sir Reginald a "stubborn fool." He showed no remorse whatever over their violent passing. What emotion he did display was sham."

  Holmes had always possessed an uncanny ability to probe beneath the surface of one's personality, to root out hidden truths in us all. Now he continued:

  "You will, I am certain, also recall my curiosity as to why Sir Jonathan would wish to occupy chambers featuring a direct view of the area he pretended to fear and loathe. Why should he remain in a room facing the moor when he could so easily have availed himself of other quarters? When I queried him, he gave no satisfactory answer. The truth is, gentlemen, the moor was his killing ground and he was out here, in this very area, on the two nights his brothers were so savagely butchered."

  "But Holmes, I protested, "Jonathan's aunt told me, upon hearing cries of despair from the moor on both of those fateful nights, that she had rushed upstairs and locked his door from the outside — to protect him from possible harm. She had the only key. When she unlocked the door to check on him later, he was in the bedroom with his horror story of what he had seen through the window. This happened on both occasions. Thus, if he were out here on the moor at the time of the murders, as you claim he was, how could he have left his room, let alone later re-enter it, having no key of his own?"

  "Elementary, my dear chap, said Holmes. "While I was pottering about in Sir Jonathan's bedroom I came upon a small clod of hardened dirt wedged between the rug and the edge of the wall. From the distinctive color and texture of the clod I ascertained that it had come from Grimpen Moor. I then discovered a hidden door, behind the closed drapery and set flush with the wall — extremely difficult to detect. I didn't have to open the door to know that the stairs behind it led directly down to the moor. Which is why Jonathan chose this particular room for his bedchamber. The clod of earth had dropped, unnoticed, from his shoe as he returned to the room after one of his nefarious excursions."

  "Amazing!" I whispered, in genuine awe of the man. "Absolutely amazing."

  "Finally, Holmes continued, "I noted several volumes in the library dealing with the occult, each of them bearing the personal bookplate of Jonathan Rodney Baskerville. The lore in these books tied in directly with the twin Martian moons."

  "In what way?" asked Space.

  "The fact that the moons were full on the night of each murder told me that our Hound was no ordinary animal. Under a full moon, certain tainted individuals revert to a primitive animalistic state. Their bodies attain great strength and agility — as we have witnessed in the case at hand."

  I stared down at the corpse. The wind had ceased and the sun was just edging the dun-colored expanse of moor. "Are you telling us, I asked, "that Sir Jonathan was himself the Hound of the Baskervilles?"

  "Not a hound, Watson, but a wolf, said Holmes. "To be wholly accurate, a werewolf."

  Under the sun's rays, the features of the Beast began to shift and change. The matted fur seemed to melt back into the body; the fanged jaw became a thin-lipped mouth; the ferocious eyes softened, becoming the eyes of …

  "Sir Jonathan!" Space said in a shocked tone.

  "We couldn't kill him!" I said to Holmes. "Our shots were totally ineffective. How could you have —"

  "I used one of these, said Holmes, freeing a round from his service revolver. He held it up and the cartridge glittered brightly. "A silver bullet, he said. "The only sure way to kill a werewolf."

  "You mean, you brought silver bullets with you?" asked Space.

  "I never discount any form of superstition, said the great detective. "And while I had not previously encountered a werewolf, I nevertheless took the precaution of keeping several silver bullets among my stock of ammunition. When I noted the fact, in news accounts, that there were full moons on the nights of each murder, I therefore decided it would be prudent to take these special rounds with me to Baskerville Hall."

  "Then Sir Jonathan's life was never in danger, I stated. "He killed his two brothers in order to inherit the family fortune. The curse regarding the spectral Hound of the Baskervilles was a hoax."

  "Not entirely, said Holmes. "Remember, Watson, there was a curse involved here — the dark curse of lycanthropy."

  I looked down at the slight pale body lying motionless in the early morning light. And I shuddered. Man into wolf, and now wolf into man. The complex marvels of our universe can never truly be fathomed.

  A final notation on this bizarre affair …

  Of late, in the aftermath of our incredible adventure on Grimpen Moor, I find myself gripped with the unsettling conviction that my dear friend and companion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is — in reality — the infamous master of crime, Professor Moriarty.

  However, Hu Albin has assured me that I will be one hundred percent "hunky dory" again once my solenoids have been replaced. He will perform the operation on Christmas Day.

  Which, for a troubled robot, will be a fine and welcome Yuletime gift.

  There has never been a Sam Space film or TV series, and that's a damn shame. Sam is an ideal subject for the screen (as several agents have assured me) yet the big lug is alive only in print. This is not for lack of trying on my part. My media efforts on Sam's behalf extend back over two and a half decades. In 1980 I was paid to write a screenplay based on Space for Hire. (The first 13 pages are included in this special edition.) When my screenplay was not produced I tried again in the 1990s with a detailed screen treatment based on the two Space novels and my short story "Deadtrip". (The full treatment is here.)

  Over the course of the different prose and screen versions, Sam's robot secretary and his talking hovercar appear under variant names (as you'll see as you read what follows), and police Lt. O'Malley becomes O'Malloy. Still, the basic concept of a tough private eye on Mars, adventuring around the solar system, has never changed. In today's super-sensitive world some of the scenes and dialogue may not be politically correct. However, I refuse to revise and update Sam's wacky adventures. They are what they are, and I make no apology for them. I hate writers who attempt to second-guess themselves, who desperately try to conform to the current mores of society. Sam is not a racist or bigot. He is a male chauvinist pig and a liver-raddled alcoholic, but hey, nobody's perfect.

  Will Sam ever appear in film or television? God only knows, and She isn't talking. So … here's an inside look at the"last of the private ops" from a screen perspective.

  W.F.N.

  We OPEN, full-sky on our Sun. A great mass of flame filling the screen. Something is heading directly toward it. Something really vast. Bigger than any spaceship or asteroid. An entire planet (Mercury).

  Long fingers of flame reach out from the Sun, drawing Mercury in, towards the great solar giant …

  And Mercury is consumed in a massive, cosmic fireball.

  * * *

  Bubble City, Mars. A metropolis of futuristic globes, cones, and glo-buildings in a profusion of neon colors. Amid blowing gusts of red sand, three thuggish FROGGIES (green and scaly, with spotted bellies and bulbous eyes) in a swift bullet-shaped truck are hot after our protagonist, SAM SPACE. The Froggies are firing laser shots at Sam's robocar … and a laser blast now slices into his rear port ventwindow.

  "They're gonna kill us!" declares Sam's car, ELMORE, hysterically. "I'm at maximum velocity, and they're still gaining! This sand has me practically blind!"

  "Use your sensors!" Sam tells it. (He's cool, unperturbed.
)

  "What sensors? They went out two months ago, remember? I keep tellin' ya, I'm way overdue for servicing."

  "Your vehicle is quite correct in admonishing you, declares the tall figure seated next to Sam. In deerstalker hat, greatcoat, and pipe, it's SHERLOCK HOLMES. "One should always maintain one's transport in tip-top shape."

  Sam spots a deep Martian canal to the left and orders his car to head for it, full speed.

  The action seems suicidal … as, almost side by side, the two vehicles plunge over the edge of the canal. In panic, the Froggies go down with their truck, but Elmore extends metal legs and "walks" across the canal to the far side.

  Only a few rising bubbles mark the grave of the bullet truck.

  "Good work, Elmore, Sam tells his car as the legs fold back into the body. "Now take us to O'Malloy." (He pronounces it as "O'Malley. ")

  "Why were those unsavory thugs after you?" Holmes wants to know.

  Sam explains that he is carrying a packet of Moondust which he confiscated on his last case. "Those Froggies found out I had the drug and came hot-assing after it. Worth a fortune on the market."

  "Why was I not informed of this volatile situation?" asks Holmes. "My life was seriously endangered."

  "So what?" snaps Sam. "You're defective. You totally screwed up that glo-worm kidnapping caper. After I hand over the dust to O'Malley, I'm taking you back to Albin's joint."

  Holmes begins to giggle, clapping his hands together. "Oh, goodie! I'm going home!"

  * * *

  A brief scene at Mars Homicide as Sam turns the packet of Moondust over to LIEUTENANT ANGUS O'MALLOY, a burly, tough-looking cop with a cigar stuck in his drink-bloated kisser. He's greatly pissed at Sam's addressing him as "O'Malley." ("It's O'Mal-LOY, and ye damn well know it!" in a thick Scottish accent.) "Good thing ye turned the Dust over to me," says the cop. "If I'd found it on ye, I'd of sent you over. I can't stand cheap private dicks. Your kind pollute the Martian atmosphere!"